White Lie
by GypsyFilmGirl
Summary: In a marriage that is coming unsewn, Elena finds comfort in a bottle and a confidante in a stranger.


The mixture of thunder and rain and the low murmur of the smallish crowd inside the bar numbed Elena's mind. She'd stormed out of the house after a fight with Damon as soon as she'd gotten home. Her long hours at work were bleeding into her personal life. In the past two weeks, she hadn't been home before sundown. Damon's job had gone bankrupt and left him at home, which did nothing but add to his asshole-ishness. He was so temperamental, angry that he'd been dropped and that no one was hiring. But for months now, he and Elena had become distanced. Her distracted by her overflowing work as an assistant to an architect. Daily, new projects were coming in, and Elena was falling behind in her paperwork. So every day, she stayed long enough to only be some behind, instead of completely. Damon took heed of her efforts, but still subtly bitched about her being late. On some level, she knew he was doubting her. She felt the looks she got when she drug in sometime after eight. He even hinted at it because, somewhere in his head, he assumed it. And that just made her recoil. He wasn't as warm as he used to be—his affection was few and far between. Sometimes, she wondered why they even still were.

"A whiskey," she said to the bartender as she strung her trenchcoat on the back of the stool and sat. The leather was cold against her bare legs, and she pulled at her dress to cover her thighs. One of her high heels clattered to the floor as it slipped from her stockinged foot, but she didn't care. She buried her face in her hands, closing her eyes, and clearing her mind. She didn't want to think about him or how angry he made her or how thread-bare their relationship had become. She didn't want to think about how much it would affect their daughter when they finally decided to make the long-pending split. She wanted to drink and reorganize the list of things she had to do for the next morning and pray that her boss didn't fire her for not being able to keep up.

"May I sit here?" She looked up, seeing a broad-jawed man pointing to the seat beside her. She glanced, realizing she'd set her bag there and scrambled to move it.

"Sure. Sorry," she mumbled, taking the glass from the tender, not even letting him set it on the glossy surface. The stranger watched her, amused.

"Hard day?"

"Hard year," she corrected, and quickly ordered another.

"Can relate," he answered. He held out a hand to her. "I'm Stefan." Elena looked at it, but obliged.

"Elena." She even managed a smile as she shook it. She wasn't a bar hopper. She didn't come and sit in the smoke and gorge on alcohol. It wasn't her. Well, until now. It seemed to be the only way to get away.

"What's got you here? Job? Husband?"

"All the above," Elena coughed.

"Mm. Me too. Except the husband part," Stefan corrected. "The girlfriend's trying to accuse me of sleeping around."  
Elena snorted a laugh. "So staying out late in bars is proving her wrong?"

"I like to keep her guessing." Elena downed her first drink, grimaced at the burn but welcomed it all the same. The man behind the bar gave her another, while the one beside her rose a brow.

"You're stout," he noted. "Or really bothered." Elena shrugged, bouncing a crossed leg.

"Ever try to do the right thing, but get convicted for it anyways?" She threw a side glance at Stefan and he pursed his lips, as if he completely understood.

"My husband lost his job. He takes it out on me—stressing over our daughter asking where I am because she never sees me, the fact that I'm lucky to get home before nine most nights. He doesn't see me, working my ass off to make things work until he can find another job. His mind drifts to the fact that I'm out, sleeping around, because I'm not with him. I /can't/ comprehend where he gets that bullshit, but damn it—I'm /tired./" She pushed her fingers into her temples, so worn out with the whole thing that she realized she didn't even care to cry over it. That was just it. She was tired.

"My girlfriend is insecure. We don't live together, but she's convinced that I don't love her like I should because I haven't asked her to marry me yet." Elena coughed.

"She doesn't ask for much, does she?"

"Only my blood," he joked, nudging an empty glass towards the backside of the tabletop. "I don't want that. Not now. Yeah, we've been together for five years, but I'm not looking to get married. She's all wedding bells and white dress and all that," he grumbled.

"Tell her that," Elena said, leaning against the back of the chair, feeling a slight heat from the alcohol starting to work on her. "She'll never know if you don't." Stefan turned the short tumbler around and around, watching it in his hand.

"I have. I guess she thinks I'll come around."

"I pressured my husband at one time. We were in high school—scared him." She shifted in her seat. "I think I made him feel like he had to sometimes." God. Was their whole marriage a mistake? Surely not. Stefan shook his head.

"What is it with women and white?" He snorted.

"Hey, don't you know it's supposed to be every girl's dream to get married?" she prodded. "Some just want it right then."

"You were one, huh?" Elena blinked at his words. He wasn't wrong.

"We graduated on a Thursday, married that Saturday," she sighed. "I mean, we were ready. I just—I don't know."

"It was the next step," he said solemnly, and she nodded in agreement. It was, because she didn't see herself with anyone else but Damon then. She didn't think they'd ever be able to love each other more than they did in that moment in time. And now, she wondered how they were even still together.

"Do you love her?" she spoke, trying to pull her mind away from Damon. Stefan gave her an incredulous look, as if she were stupid to ask such a question.

"Of course I do."

"No, you know what I mean. /Love/ her." She propped herself against the bar, waiting for his answer. He wouldn't even look at her. She knew she had him questioning.

"I…I mean I guess." He scratched his neck, flustered.

"Let me guess—you love her, but not as much as she loves you." A defeated sigh expelled from him as he hung his head.

"Yeah, it's like that." He said shortly, but he stopped himself. "We've been together for five years."

"And you're like this all the time?"

"It's complicated." Elena drummed a nail against the lacquered wood of the bartop, leaning towards Stefan. She felt of kilter when she moved, but she tried to keep herself together. This guy was fun to talk to.

"Don't stay for the sex," she said lowly, over his shoulder as she pushed away her glass. She looked at it hard and after a moment she turned it over. She'd had enough.

"What?"

"You heard me," she said matter-of-fact. "/Don't ruin your life for sex./" She squinted at him, seeing a hue of red in his cheeks. "You know it's the truth." He grumbled.

"Okay. And what if it is?"

"You could find someone else. Someone that doesn't drive you to drinking because she wants what you don't." He studied her, as if he were processing her words to him. "Not all women are interested in being a wife." He shook his head, rubbed his eyes as he glanced down to his glass. It was empty, just like hers. He'd had more than her, she knew. He'd had two before she'd even downed her one.

"I don't know. I'll…figure it out. One day," he muttered. He looked back over to her, ready to change the subject. "What about you? You love your guy?" Elena stared at him, thinking. And it took her no time to answer that question. To herself at least. Yes, she loved Damon. She always had.

"Do you love him like he loves you?" Stefan threw back at her. Her own question. And that one she couldn't answer. Because frankly, she felt like he really didn't. Her thumb brushed the band on the inner side of her palm as she thought about it. /Did he even love her?/ Was the question really reversed? She swallowed thickly, and she found herself fighting tears. Stefan's brow came together, realizing her falling apart.

"Hey, don't cry," he spoke, which did nothing but make her want to cry more.

"I'm not," she rasped, turning her head away from him to blink them away. Crying to a stranger. Is this what she amounted to? She wanted a scotch, but she still had to get herself home. She was already borderline.

"Elena," Stefan said softly, taking her hand and trying to comfort her. This had done a 180. Elena had decided to be some stranger psychiatrist to pass the time and help in the meantime. But now the shoe was on the other foot. She was the sniveling fool because, for the months this had been going on, she'd not said anything to anyone. She'd kept it to herself, hoping time would resolve it. Instead, it only seemed to make it worse. Elena finally looked to the man beside her, his thumb calmly tracing the back of her palm as she tried to pull herself together.

"I can't leave him," she breathed. "I have a baby to think about. She's five, she'd never understand why we stopped being together."

"There's ways around that," Stefan reasoned. "Tell her you're going to be happier. She would get that, don't you think?" Elena sighed. She didn't know. Instead, she let herself order two more drinks for them. She wanted to be numb. She wasn't there yet.

"I'll…figure it out," she said solemnly, taking a long swallow from her new round. She was dizzy, but not numb. It's like the alcohol refused to work. She pulled her hand away and brushed her eyes as she took a swig. Stefan's phone rung in his pocket, causing him to roll his eyes.

"You should tell her," Elena said wetly, clearing her throat as she tried to stabilize herself. "Don't let her hang and wonder."

"I will," Stefan rebuked. "Just in person. It'd be kind of shitty if I did it over the phone, don't you think?"

"Says the one who stays out just to 'keep her guessing,'" Elena turned, really pushing her glass away this time and finding her coat and purse.

"Awe. Leaving so soon?" Stefan played. He wasn't so sober himself. He sounded about how she felt.

"I have work in the morning," she frowned, trying to find the arm of her coat. Stefan hopped down, draped it over her shoulders.  
"I'll walk you."  
"Oh, you don't have to do that. I live on the East Side. It's not that far of a walk." Stefan shrugged, dropping a fifty bill on the counter.

"Me too." She huffed.

"You're drunker than I am. Have you heard you?" He laughed.

"Fine. /You/ can walk /me/ home, then. But I'm not letting you go alone." Elena rolled her eyes, drawing the canvas lapels around her shoulders as they went out the door.

Thunder rolled outside and Elena tried to walk a little faster to beat the rain. Between the alcohol trying to finally set in and her heels, she was forced to actually slow down a little, stabilizing herself with the help of Stefan. He was silent, and she couldn't decide if he was thinking about something or just trying to keep himself from falling.

"Where around here do you live?" she spoke as they walked towards her block. Was that a raindrop already?  
"Bedford," Stefan replied. He was eyeing the sky himself as lightning started to brighten the sky.

"No kidding? I do too. Stucco house before the intersection." He laughed.

"On the rich end?" Elena snorted.

"It's not rich. It's just fancy-looking. Believe you me."

"If you say so. From the other side of the intersection, we don't think that."

A heavy roll of thunder started and in seconds it started to rain. It wasn't droplets or a starting sprinkle. Water began to pour from the sky, heavy as it hit them. Stefan grabbed her arm and began to walk a little faster, almost dragging her with him as they clambered up brick stairs under an awning of a front porch. Keys jingled and the front door opened to a dark living room. Stefan dropped his jacket at her feet and flipped on a light, revealing a rather homey den with a fireplace, a bookshelf, and an oversized mirror hung over the mantle. It took a moment for her to realize: /he'd just let her in his home./ Was the girlfriend here? She definitely didn't need that.  
"Nice place," she noted, peeping down the hallway and listening rather intently for any sign of another person.

"She's not here," he answered her thought. /Thank God./

"I should really go either way."

"In this rain?" He glanced out the window where the pouring continued. Nothing was untouched by water now. It was beginning to actually flow down the incline of the sidewalks as it sought to find a drain.

"I'll be fine," she shrugged. "It's just rain. And I'm literally half a block away." Just then, a loud clap rang out, and the lights Stefan has just turned on went dark.

"Damn it," he grumbled. It was too dark to see, but she heard him rummaging for something, a flicking sound, then the fireplace started to burn. He piled on wood from the foot of the fireplace and the flames began to eat at it, growing and illuminating the room enough that she could make out shapes instead of just blackness.

"You know what? I'm just going to wait it out." She looked at her watch. It was barely 715. Going home now would be early anyways. "I don't like lightning enough to walk in it." She shed her jacket at the door, draping it on the ground with his on the rug for it to dry out.

"I'd offer a drink, but—"  
"I'm really okay," she laughed. "/Really./"

"Thank God, because I wouldn't give it to you." Elena feigned a look of appall as she sat on the couch nearest the fire, trying to warm up.

"Rude."

"No, rude would be letting you get shitfaced on a Tuesday when you have work the next day." Elena's lip curled in disgust as she considered the hangover she was probably going to have tomorrow.

"Please don't remind me." She took a deep breath and glanced over the room. It was decorated, much as if a woman were to live here. She'd learned by experience that men weren't often decorators, and the amount of thought given to this was too much. The mirror, the lavish fireplace, throw pillows—his girlfriend loved him a lot. A photo sat on the end table beside her. In it was Stefan and a bright-faced blonde girl who strung herself over his shoulder, pecking his cheek.

"Is this who wants to marry you?" Elena asked. Stefan nodded, prodding the fire.  
"Caroline," he said quietly. "Normally she's here to annoy me, but she's out of town. Girl's vacation or something."

"She loves you," Elena observed, turning her gaze over to him. He sighed.

"I know. Unfortunately."

It was silent between them for a few minutes before he brushed his hands off and went to the kitchen. He came back with bottles of water and sat one on the coffee table in front of her.  
"I'm going to tell her," he said, as if he were feeling judged. "I just haven't figured out how yet."

"You have to let her know that you don't want the same things. That you're not happy." He rose a brow at her as he sat on the sofa.

"Is that what you're going to say to your husband when you finally go home?"

"Maybe," Elena bit. She leaned down and peeled the high heels from her feet, her ankles sore from wobbling all during their walk. "I hope he doesn't hate me."

"I don't understand how he could," Stefan mumbled, unscrewing the lid from his water. She looked to him, curious.

"What do you mean?"

"From what I've seen, I don't know how anyone could hate you," he shrugged. "You're nice. You care, obviously, about other people—which is admirable, by the way." A slow smile crept over her lips.  
"I just think people should help each other is all."

"I appreciate you listening," he sort of smiled back, and it struck Elena. A smile looked good on him, but somehow she doubted that he ever truly smiled about much. As if it were a foreign thing to him.

"Least I could do. I had a meltdown on your shoulder," she half-laughed, lazily running her hands through her dampened hair as she sat back some. A little woozier, she noticed. Stefan slunk into the couch himself, watching her.

"Someone like you shouldn't be unhappy, Elena," she heard him say as she watched the rain continue to gush off the roof in waterfalls over the gutters. "There are a thousand other people out there that will make things better for you."  
"You say these things, but look at you," Elena sort of smiled. "I guess we're just both messed up, right?"

He smirked at her words. "You really make me want another drink."

"Split it with you?"

"No, I already said I wasn't going to let you get wasted. Remember?" She laughed, then leaned over closer to him to whisper.

"Between you and me, /I don't care./"  
"Mm. You say that now. What about 8 am tomorrow?" Elena found herself watching him, as if she were somehow drawn. She tried to tell herself it was the liquor and to get herself together, but she struggled to believe her own words. His mossy green hues were glazed, just like hers probably were. And he watched her drift closer, the distance between them becoming shorter and shorter until her plump lips were just centimeters from his. Her body buzzed with alcohol and adrenaline, and she tried to tell herself no.

"You're married," he spoke, the roll of the 'm' making the skin of his lips brush hers. She laid a finger on them, and thought—how wrong was this? And for once in her life, she found that she didn't care.

Elena carefully pressed her mouth against his, finally getting the long-awaited euphoria of contact that had suddenly taken over her. His lips danced along her jawline, then her collarbone, as she shed piece by piece of clothing from her body and his both. The radiating heat of the fire met her skin and she felt exposed and exhilarated all at once, and she wanted more. His hands crept over her, caressing her in places she hadn't been touched in what seemed like forever. And through every movement he made with her- when he kissed her bare breasts, when his strong hands found themselves between her knees, teasing her and causing whimpers that hadn't emerged from her in months—she thought of Damon. She wished it were Damon who would do this to her. She ached for human touch and for the love of her husband, and even through the climax, when Stefan pulled her so close to him, all she could think was when Damon would do that to her and make her feel wanted. /Needed./ Craved for. And they'd become so distanced, she was seeking that love and comfort in the arms of a stranger who was in nothing more than drunken love with her—something that would never last, she knew, but it felt like for now it was all she had. And part of her wished it would last forever.

The clock on the mantle ticked, the only sound in the house besides the fire crackling in the hearth. It was a quarter to 12, and she knew Damon was worried by now. Or at least pissed that she wasn't there yet. Her limbs were entwined with Stefan's who was asleep on the floor beside her. His soft, slow exhales were slumber-inducing, but she resisted the urge to drift off. She's somewhat sobered up. She didn't feel as zoned out as she had a few hours prior. But she made herself get up, carefully slipping out of Stefan's grasp. He'd probably try to contact her tomorrow, ask why she left. She'd created a mess, but at the same time she really didn't mind. /God, I'm an awful person./ She found each piece of clothing that was flung somewhere around the den and dressed the best she could while maneuvering around being completely exhausted and having to walk a half-block home. She opted to go barefooted, tucked her heels into her purse, and quietly left the apartment.

It was nearly midnight when Elena finally got back to the brownstone. The lights still on, Elena was anticipating another blow up before she could even get to the bedroom. She let her bag fall onto the floor near the door and lost her shoes there, too. She felt so tired, she didn't think that she would be able to deal with what he might throw at her. /"Where have you been?" "Was work really that bad?" "Isn't it just papers to sign?"/ Damon met her as she expected, standing in the darkened doorway to the kitchen. His face, though, didn't portray any anger. Instead, she thought she saw regret.

"Hey," she rasped. "Everything okay?"

"I've been thinking and…I thought about what I've said," he said cautiously.

"Really?" Elena bit at first, but she stopped herself. /No more fighting./ "I'm just trying to keep us above water, Damon."

"I realize that," he answered. "Chloe asked me why we fought all the time, and I thought about it."

"And?"

"It's a lot of stupid shit. And it's my fault. Because I'm mad." Elena didn't answer, she just watched him. He'd taken this long to figure it out. Eight long months.

"I shouldn't take it out on you. I just haven't dealt with it well." Elena ran her fingers through her hair. Finally the words she wanted to hear, but now it was almost too late. /Please stop talking,/ she plead silently.

"I get it," she said quietly. "I know how you are, and it's frustrating. I just wish you wouldn't be so hard on me about things I can't help."

"I know, babe," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I truly am." She gave a flat smile, like she wanted to be happy he was finally talking. All she could think about was the last five hours. "I really love you, Elena, and I haven't shown it. I've been an ass to you, and you've been nothing but good to me. Like you always have been." Elena nodded, shedding her soaked dress in the laundry room and wrapping herself up in a flimsy silk robe.

"I love you too, Damon," she whispered, "I just wish you could have figured this out so much sooner." She felt those piercing eyes on her, questioning her. She never looked. She just hung her dress to dry, threw her wet shoes into the dryer. "I was so convinced you'd fallen out of love with me."

"What?"

"You've been so hateful. I try to talk to you about it and you snap my head off. I couldn't tell you the last time we've even held hands—you're nothing like you used to be, Damon."  
"I let my worrying consume me, Elena, I see that now," he said sternly, as if he were offended she'd said such a thing. Could he really question what she'd said? It'd been months since she heard him utter those three words.

"I was beginning to think I was the only person trying," she quavered, but she refused to cry a second time tonight. He gently gripped her shoulders, looking into her eyes, searching them.

"I will never stop loving you, Elena," he said quietly but with so much passion, she could have sworn she saw Old Damon. "I will always love you." She wanted to cry. What had she done?

"I love you too," she whispered, letting him pull her body to his. And just like that, she'd broken her own heart. She buried her face into his shoulder, speaking lowly into his ear as he hugged her tight.

"I'm so sorry."


End file.
